


The Consequence of Being Known

by shmrrr



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo (2021 Round One) [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Blood and Injury, CPR, Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation, Could be platonic, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Din Djarin Removes the Helmet, Din Djarin Whump, Drowning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Good Parent Din Djarin, Hurt Din Djarin, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Medical Inaccuracies, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Season/Series 02, Protective Paz Vizsla, Soft Paz Vizsla, These Boys are a MESS, Whump, but nothing spooky and nothing actively, could be read as dinpaz if you want, it happened in the past, tho not really by choice but eh, willing to bet money on that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29305728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shmrrr/pseuds/shmrrr
Summary: Paz has been hiding, laying low after the massacre on Nevarro. And with a broken Creed and frayed nerves, he's numb to the loss. Though, he knows it's only a matter of time before someone finds him, before someone comes looking and digging up all those memories he has so carefully buried.What he isn't expecting is for that person to be Din Djarin.Averyinjured, half-dead Din Djarin who is in need of his help...BAD THINGS HAPPEN BINGO PROMPT: Drowning
Relationships: Din Djarin & Paz Vizsla
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo (2021 Round One) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2152458
Comments: 94
Kudos: 183





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All copyright material does not belong to me.

There wasn't much that surprised Paz, nowadays.

Or, that was what he had thought. After their people had crudely disbanded in the name of survival, left to scurry like sewer rats as they fled Nevarro, Paz had thought he had seen it all. He had seen the day the Mandalorians were no more, being shot down, burned alive, ripped apart by Imperial stormtroopers. He had witnessed the death of his clansmen, his friends, his  _ siblings _ . He had disgraced himself, removing his armor for the sake of survival…

_ Pathetic. _

That word had rang true in his ears, over and over, sounding like dead clansmen, like the Armorer, like Din  _ fucking  _ Djarin, the poster boy of the Way, if Paz had ever seen one. The word had come from all those he had failed because the moment Paz had slipped off the helmet, he was a disgrace. It had been a gut-wrenching feeling with a disgusting aftertaste, knowing that all those bodies he had left behind were now nothing but corpses to him, no matter  _ how _ deeply he had cared for them in the past. They were somebodies, were  _ warriors _ , and he, now, was a nobody.

Even now, he was nobody.

Nobody, living on no purposeful planet, doing nothing of importance, for his no-good life.

_ Blending in _ was what Paz had labeled it, early on. He had stripped himself of his beskar, had tied it in a sack, and had stuffed it at the bottom of the only closet in his one-room shack-of-a-home. Then, he had told himself, "I'm blending in." The unsaid words were, "I am  _ surviving. _ " But that had felt wrong, had felt  _ terrible _ , in fact. Felt like a mockery of everyone who hadn't. 

Over time,  _ blending in _ became meager  _ living _ as he spent his days in the mining fields of Uborea, and his nights inside, contemplating, sitting in the quiet. There wasn't much time between work shifts, allowing for six hours of sleep and one hour to get home, eat, bathe, relax as much as he could, then get back to work. But Paz preferred it. He needed the distraction, needed to feel  _ useful _ even if it were doing something as small as pulling raw metals from the ground.

It had made him feel wanted, for once.

Though, he was replaceable, he had known...

The days dragged on, and on, hours becoming weeks, and before Paz knew it, he had fallen into routine. Normalcy had shifted from bounties and battling to domestic life rather easily, actually, enough so that one evening Paz had sat down and realized it had been nearly a  _ month _ since the slaughter of his covert.

It had stung, but it hadn't  _ surprised _ him. He hadn't felt much of anything at  _ all _ , usually.

Just like when Paz had watched a man lose control of a harvesting tool and slice off his own fingers. He had felt nothing. Just like when he had gotten cornered one night, had beaten three muggers until their blood was caked to his cracked knuckles. He had felt nothing. Just like now, as he walked home from a long day's work and watched with empty eyes as five people held down a suit of shiny, straight-silver beskar, arms restrained, legs kicking weakly, helmet under the water of the lake they were wading waist-deep in.

The fight left the Mandalorian…

But it never left Paz.

He surged forward, surprisingly himself as he ripped one of the assailants off Din's leg by the back of his shirt, yanking another one by his arm. Said arm popped out of its socket and a howl broke through the air but Paz paid no mind, hauling the wriggling body leftwards and heaving the one he had fisted by their shirt to his right. Din was still under, still not  _ moving _ , but his attackers were. One held Din down by the shoulders while the other two rushed Paz.

They couldn't get a good hit in. Petty thieves, Paz realized. They were mere crooks of the mining town, nothing more.

He broke a hand here, a nose there, leaving them both sprawled half-in the water, half-on the sandy shore. The fifth attacker's jaw hung open as he stared, waited, practically  _ froze _ with his hands still on Din's shoulders. He stammered out, "Th-The beskar! We just want the beskar! It sells for a lot!" Then, he leaned in, a wiry little smirk twisting his lips. "You can have a cut. I'll give--"

The moment Paz rushed him the man released Din, squealing and leaping backwards into the water until he was swimming across the lake. Paz paid him no mind, instead closing the distance between him and Din and hauling the Mandalorian up by his beskar chest plate, breaking the water's surface and dragging him out. The armor was thick; it didn't float, leaving Din submerged for nearly a minute.

That wasn't good.

Paz felt a kick of adrenaline. The shock began to settle in, the realization of what was happening kicking his heart up into his throat. Because Din was the first Mandalorian he had seen in a  _ month,  _ and he had been drowned right before Paz's fucking eyes.

It was so surprising, it almost didn't seem possible.

Ahead, the shoreline was barren - footprints being the only signs of a scuffle - as Paz dragged Din up and onto land. He lowered him down, got to his knees. Din wasn't moving, wasn't aware, hell, wasn't even  _ breathing, _ from the looks of it. A quick push of two fingers to the pulse point under Din's jaw confirmed Paz's concern.

Paz ground his teeth.

There was no way to do this and still keep Din's pride intact. It was either him or the Creed that would survive.  And he would be  _ damned _ if he let Din Djarin die from being drowned in a four-foot deep  _ lake. _

The only hesitancy in Paz's hands was given away by the twitching of his fingers as he found the latch to Din's chest plate, pulling it and tossing the metal piece one way while thumbing the catch to Din's helmet. He broke the seal and pulled it up over Din's head as carefully as he could.  Paz made sure to cradle his head as he got the helmet off, trying his best to focus on the here, on the  _ now _ , not on the man whom he had grown up with, had shared missions and meals with, being revealed to him after over twenty years. But he couldn't help but look, but glance down at the dark fringe soaked to Din's forehead, at the short-trimmed facial hair, at a small scar across the bridge of his nose…

Din looked nothing like Paz had remembered.

He had seen Din without his helmet, of course. They were nearly a decade apart, but Din had accelerated in his training and Paz had been late age-wise to the covert, making them graduates of the same year. Together, they had dawned the Creed. Back then, Din had a round face still holding baby fat, cushioning an innocence in his eyes. He hadn't looked menacing, hadn't been nearly as intimidating as those around them. But Paz had thought that would change as he grew older.

It hadn't. He was wrong.  Din hadn't changed at all. He was still the same soft-looking kid, only lined with age and covered with dots of scar tissue.

Paz stopped. Stared.

Then remembered the asshole wasn't even  _ breathing. _

He bent over Din, pinching his nose and tilting his chin up to deliver one breath, two, before pulling away, interlocking his fingers, and pushing down  _ hard _ on Din's chest. The compressions winded him, leaving him shaky as he jerked back and gave another two breaths. Din's skin was cold. _Too_ cold. Paz shuddered, though from fear or from the chill, he wasn't sure. He couldn't be sure, not with a dying man right in front of him.

One compression followed two, three, and Paz growled out on the fourth, "Come on--" and on the fifth, "--you  _ prick. _ " Underneath Din's black flak suit, Paz heard something give with a dull snap. A rib, and hopefully no more than just one.

Paz pulled himself upright for another two breaths. His fingers brushed under Din's jaw to tilt--

Din jerked, more desperate than graceful, as he coughed up water. Water, then vomit. Paz pulled back and rolled Din, getting his hands under the other man's arms and manhandling him upright. He set Din across his thighs, then sighed, releasing a tightness that had swelled under his sternum. He hadn't realized how _relieving_ it would be to hear Din's breaths, however wheezy and strained they were. 

"Easy,  _ beroya,  _ easy." Paz said, as gently as he could, over the sound of Din's sputtering. "Just relax.  _ Udesiir. _ You hear me?"

If Din did, he made no move to show it. He shifted his limbs weakly, dragged in a ragged sound. Paz remembered his likely-broken rib, his likely-bruised chest.

"Sorry, sorry…" Paz mumbled, carefully shifting Din until he was facing up and cradled in Paz's arms. His legs were folded over themselves, his one arm lying mere inches from his puddle of sick. The man was out of it, eyelids struggling to open fully, never quite reaching success.

Paz said, "Just breathe, Din."

Din stared up at him.

Eye contact was still difficult for Paz. Whether talking to his fellow workers in the fields, or to his bosses, or to a goddamn bartender, Paz could only sustain a few seconds before his gaze flicked away. While he had forgone his beskar long ago - long enough that he no longer felt naked without it - he still hadn't been able to keep another person's eyes. They were too vulnerable, too telling.

But  _ Din. _

Perhaps nearly-drowning had clogged up his senses, because he was  _ staring _ , not once breaking the contact. His eyes lingered, a relentless assault that burned holes into Paz's skin. Paz glanced down. Din's eyes were still that same soft, brown shade that he had seen so many times in his youth, holding nothing kindness regardless of their intensity. It almost seemed comical to him that Din had been born with such a compassionate gaze, yet harbored such an _intense_ anger, sometimes only _barely_ tamped down.

Paz swallowed thickly, blinked as he waited for something to happen, waited for Din to  scream,  or  curse, or berate him for forcing his betrayal of the Creed.

Then it hit him:

Did the guy even  _ realize _ his Creed was broken? Was he even aware of what was _happening?_

Without fanfare, Din's energy reserves gave out: his eyes rolled back, body going limp, head lolling against Paz's arm as his lungs hitched, heaving in air.

Paz realized that, no, Din likely had no idea what just occurred.

It made his guts twist up, but at least his fellow clansman was _ alive _ , and that was, honestly, all that mattered to Paz in that moment. He was alive, here, _now_ , in Paz's lap, soaking wet in his weighty, water-logged beskar and flak suit, with his helmet laying a few feet away...

It felt cruel to have done that to Din, almost felt like the wrong decision.

_ Almost. _

Paz glanced up and twisted, looking around. His first and  _ only _ step had been to rescue Din. Now that he was safe, though, Paz wasn't sure what to do, where to go.

The three suns were setting, painting the sky a brilliant bright red. A mocking color, really; it was the color of bloodshed, of death. Insects trilled in the darkness. Nobody was around, everyone either turned in for the night or at the bars. That had tackled the issue of being seen, or being jumped again, but then another problem arose: what the  _ hell _ was he supposed to do with Din?

There were no hospitals in the shifty town, and he wasn't going to risk the sanitation nor security of a local healer. Besides, Din was  _ freshly _ broken of his Creed. Waking up with his face bare in a stranger's presence wasn't ideal. Yet, Paz wasn't entirely confident in his own healing abilities. Din needed bacta, needed  _ help _ . There were stories of men drowning on dry land - secondary drowning, he had heard it called - and if Din were at risk of that, Paz wasn't sure  _ what _ the best move was.

He glanced down at him.

Still unconscious, but breathing easier. Far easier than even a few moments ago. That was good. Paz would take the little victories. He was quickly becoming a man of the bare minimum, he realized, scoffing at the thought. His eyes caught on Din's helmet once again, then.

There was no way he was going to leave it behind. Beskar was a rarity, people would kill for it, and Din had almost died  _ because _ of it. But carrying Din  _ and _ the armor was going to be exhausting. His muscles ached from the long day's work as it were…

Paz grit his teeth. He'd endure.

Gathering his charge up, he moved quick, hoisting Din further in his arms and bending carefully to grab the chest plate and helmet. The walk to his one-room house was short, only about ten minutes, and if Paz walked quick, he could get them inside and situated before daylight ran out. It was safer that way; criminals came out after dark.

He moved fast, long legs making long strides down the dirt path. Paz huffed. His arms ached, legs burned with strain. Din wasn't necessarily heavy, but the added weight of his beskar and a sixteen-hour workday, admittedly, made Paz weary. He wanted nothing more than to pass out in his own bed.

Though, he had a feeling  _ someone _ was going to be taking his spot this evening…

Paz looked ahead, mentally tallying off what he needed to do:

Preparing the bed was out of the question, he'd just drop Din on top of it as it was. But making a warm meal, getting water, dressing whatever wounds he had, those things were in order. He could call in his boss, take one of his five annual sick days afterwards.

As far as Din's injuries went, though, Paz was in the dark. He was far from a doctor, and he had, unfortunately, always zoned out during field medicine lessons. Time had given him experience, though not much. He knew to check for concussions, for the likely-broken rib, for anything else the attackers had done to Din. But besides that, he wasn't sure. Slapping on some bacta patches would help, but he wasn't sure  _ how much _ help they would be…

On top of that, there was the secondary drowning Paz had to worry about.

He frowned; Din had almost drowned.

_ Din Djarin. _ Had almost  _ drowned. _ In a  _ lake.  _ In water that came up no higher than the man's  _ chest. _

_ Why? _

Or, rather, Paz was wondering  _ how? _ It wasn't as if Din were out of shape, or a bad fighter. The man could go head-to-head, toe-to-toe with most in their covert, himself included. Din was younger and smaller than most in their group, but he had been trained well, was a  _ goddamn _ fighter with a spark of determination bordering on arrogant defiance at times.

How had he been bested by five assholes, two of which had ran away soon after Paz had arrived?

The first thing that crossed his mind was that they had gotten the jump on Din, but a quick scan of their surroundings told him otherwise: the path along the river was barren, free of trees and shrubbery, leaving just dirt and grass to decorate the riverside, hardly a viable hiding spot. And while it was getting dark, the dusk from suns gave plenty of light well into the evening. It wasn't as if it were easy to sneak up on a man when there was loose gravel and watery mud all around them, anyways.

His eyes flicked down, over Din. Bruised, with a bloody nose, a cut lip, but no other visible wounds.

Was Din hurt?  _ Badly? _

As he ended his hike to his house, Paz sighed, thanking the  _ makers _ nobody else had come for them. It was lucky they hadn't been spotted, but even luckier, in Paz's opinion, that Din had stayed unconscious the entire walk. Lucky, but also concerning. He was still breathing, was warm against his skin despite the cold of the river water, but still…

Paz didn't like it.

He all but kicked the front door open, shuffling inside. He kicked it closed, too, and made for his bed. On the way, he dropped Din's helmet and chest plate, scooting them out of the way with his boot. Carefully, he settled Din on the mattress and rose, stretching out.

The room needed light. Paz needed a  _ break _ .

Nonetheless, he crossed the floor, flicked on the overhead lamp, then closed the distance between himself and Din once again. He sank down next to the bed, leaning over the mattress, and lowered his head into his folded arms.

Everything in him burned with exhaustion, both emotional and physical. He was  _ tired _ , tired of being alone and tired of fighting. Yet, he missed it, he felt the burning  _ need _ to kick in the teeth of everyone around him. Perhaps his nerves were raw, left untamed for too long, but something in him wanted to fight, to draw blood, but moreover, to  _ protect. _ Protect Din Djarin, of all people, as he lay sprawled on his bed.

But Din wasn't his friend. Hell, they were barely  _ allies _ . So why should he care? Why  _ did _ he care?

Even as children, they had always bickered, always fought. Din had been a scruffy, twig-thick thing as a kid, never growing quite tall enough, never gaining quite enough body mass to topple people like Paz could. It had earned him bullies, gave him enemies. Their downfall - Paz included - had been that Din was chocked full of a hidden, fiery rage.

In the earlier years, when Din had first been picked up, Paz and the others had just called him, "the little guy" but that had quickly become, "the little guy  _ with extreme anger issues" _ . Din would scream at them, would throw fists and fits and would bring their asses to the ground. Din's  _ buir _ had told the other Foundlings that was from trauma, that he would grow out of it, given time. Paz had scoffed, then, because who  _ didn't  _ have trauma? Nobody else had acted like that.

Din's  _ buir  _ had been right, though. He had grown out of it, had harnessed it like a goddamn vibroblade for years to come. That anger had bested Paz many times over when they were children, but it had absolutely  _ blindsided  _ him in adulthood sparring matches.

Din could hold his own. Could  _ fight. _ Probably  _ would _ fight Paz, given the chance…

So why the  _ hell _ did Paz want to help him so badly?

He sat upright, pushing himself to his feet to grab his field kit from the tiny refresher connected to the large, single room. It wasn't  _ nearly _ as stocked as Paz would have liked, but it would do. He set it next to Din's head, flipped it open, and rummaged through.

Three square patches of bacta, all mere days from expiration. Tape. A half-roll of gauze. Hydration salts. No antibiotics, no medicine.

Paz sat back on his haunches and hung his head. His stomach bottomed out as he peeked up at Din, still half-in his armor, still completely unconscious. The beskar needed to come off, but do did the flak suit. It was skin-tight, soaked through, and black, too dark to see any other wounds that may be there. Paz grabbed scissors from his kitchenette, unclasped the remaining beskar pieces - pauldrons, vambraces, cuisses - and began cutting away at the flak suit's shirt.

Everything Din was wearing could be replaced with a couple credits, and Paz was sure he probably had  _ something  _ too small that the guy could wear. His life was at stake, and pleasantries had long-since passed. He cut, and cut, and when the material wouldn't give, he  _ ripped _ , tearing his way through the suit and to the flesh underneath.

Din's undershirt was soaked dark with water and blood.

A  _ lot _ of blood.

" _ Osik. _ " Paz hissed through his teeth. "What the hell did you do, Djarin?"

He, too, cut through that shirt.

While it wasn't pretty nor well done, Din  _ had _ tried to patch himself up, it seemed. Made from torn cloth and metallic duct repair tape, Din had slapped the 'bandages' over two puncture wounds, one in his shoulder, and one just above his hip, in his stomach. When Paz peeled the dressings back, he was surprised to find that the wounds weren't necessarily wide, but they were deep, instead, looking more like knife injuries than anything else. The wound on his stomach gurgled blood, red tracks rolling down his side in thick rivulets. The shoulder wound seemed, thankfully, mostly clotted.

When Paz cut out the sleeves of the shirt, he found two blaster burns there, too. "Damnit." Paz muttered.

Three bacta patches and a half-roll of bandage…

That wasn't going to be enough between the bruises, the broken rib, the puncture wounds, the burns.

Paz set to work assessing, first. It may not be enough, but he could get the most life-threatening wounds fixed up as best as possible. The locations of the injuries were precise, a perfect place to hit where there was a break in-between Din's armor. Between his thick belt and chest plate, between the chest plate and right pauldron, underneath his left pauldron; whoever was attacking knew a Mandalorian's weak spots.

It concerned Paz, though not as much as a threatening infection or fever. He quickly cracked open the bacta packaging and replaced the makeshift bandages with the cool, gel ones. He had nothing to secure them, but if he was lucky, Din would stay knocked out for some time to let the medication sink in. The third patch went to Din's ribcage, where a mottled, dark bruise was beginning to form. The broken rib. Paz's shoulders sagged.

He reached over Din and wrapped his arm with the remainder of the gauze, covering the scorch marks in two layers of dressing. The bruises along his cheek and jaw looked bad, but Paz figured they appeared worse than they actually were. Hopefully, Din was spared a concussion, but he wasn't sure how to check. Did he assess coordination? Eyesight? Both required Din to be conscious…

After a beat, Paz hovered over Din, gently peeling open his left eye. His iris was rolled back into his head, half-obscured, but the pupil reacted to the dim light nonetheless, tightening into a smaller circle. Paz checked the other, hummed in contentment when it reacted similarly, and pulled away.

Din was still wet, his hair drying against Paz's pillow, his soaked flak pants ruining the sheets. Paz made quick work of it all, removing the clothes and dressing him in the smallest pair of drawstring pants Paz could find. He then wet a rag, gingerly wiping off the blood crusted under his nose, to his chin, before tossing a blanket over him. When Paz stepped back, Din looked relatively healthy.

Now all there was to do was wait.

Paz was  _ shit _ at waiting.

He wandered into the kitchenette, heated some old soup. Paz ate it quick while wandering about, checking his supplies, then called in work. After ten minutes - it had  _ only _ been ten minutes, Paz realized, groaning under his breath - he had made for the refresher.

Washing away the day felt  _ good. _ Felt relaxing as the hot water massaged his shoulders, his neck, letting the hard work in the fields and the blood of the assailants get whisked away. Something about it felt strange, though, as Paz watched the grime gurgle down the drain.

As if everything that had happened this past month could just be  _ rinsed off. _

Processing had never been one of his strong suits, rather deciding it compartmentalize and pack his emotions away for a later date. Though, those later dates never seemed to  _ come. _ Yet, part of him never wanted to wrap his head around the events of the past few weeks. Part of him wanted to sit and stew in it, let the depression marinate into something sour and hateful, something that could be used for  _ revenge. _

But revenge without the Way was pointless.

Though what had happened to their covert would live with Paz forever. What he had done, what he was forced to do to survive, changed everything he ever would do in the future. He was Creedless, practically homeless, alone on a barren, backwater planet. And with Din, no less…

Paz stared down at his feet. He blinked hard, lost in thought.

What the  _ hell _ had Din been up to?

Those wounds were deep and intentional, meant to slow him down as if he were some wild animal. Where had he been for the past month? Garnering enemies, it seemed, but  _ who? _ And what of his ties to the covert? Did he know what had happened? What was he  _ doing--? _

Paz froze.

_ The child. _

Din had been rescuing a  _ child… _

The Armorer had mentioned it, had mentioned  _ Din _ rescuing the one he was supposed to hunt, the one who had a priceless bounty on its head, wanted dead or alive.

Paz snapped the water off before it could run cold. He toweled off, slipped into clean clothes, and stepped out into the main room. Before he could get far, movement caught his eye. Paz twisted around.

Flush against the wall, breathing hard, eyes set like steel, Din stood, staring him down. The bacta patches were scattered on the floor, gel-side down, the bandages unraveling from around his arm. For someone shaking with the effort of mere standing, half-propped up against the wall, Din looked  _ furious. _

  
Paz stood, stunned to silence for the second time that day, as Din ground out, "Who are  _ you…? _ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! It's my first time writing for Mando, so I'm not too hot on the characterization/voices yet. Let me know how it sounds?
> 
> Also, I am freshly-detoxed from prozac, which made me a zombie who couldn't write for _months_ so sorry if it's janky, and for friends who know me, sorry if it sounds off.
> 
> Hit me up on my brand new, fresh outta the oven [tumblr blog](https://imquitequiet.tumblr.com/), if you'd like. There's absolutely _nothing_ there, right now. Like...I literally just finished the html.
> 
> See you when I see you for the next chapter!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All copyright material does not belong to me.

For a few moments, neither man moved.

Paz was glued to his spot, eyes fixed on Din, on the way his expression twisted with vulnerability. He was flush with emotions that were textured and bright, something so unlike his beskar. Din's ears were red, likely enraged, his lip curled, but he worked hard to keep himself as neutral as possible. He gave it all away, didn’t leave anything to Paz’s imagination. The anger, the tension, the impatience was all interlaced with each subtle flicker of his face. It was their job as _beroya_ to be good at reading people: after all, every interaction could be a clue to a bounty or a brush with death, if not careful. That was why Paz knew a man could be innocent despite his scarred face. Why he knew that a killer could have the kindest eyes.

Din had those eyes.

He always had, he always would.

They were deceptive, even now, fever-bright and soft at the corners. He didn’t look as if he would kill anyone, _certainly_ not in his state, merely seeming startled, yet Paz knew that if he got close to the man, he would attack. Or, would _try._ Paz was prepared to _tackle_ him into the bed, should he need to.

But then _something_ flashed in those eyes. Something strong, something that threatened to overthrow the careful walls Din had built over the decades. It laid him bare before Paz - only for a _second_ \- but that had been long enough for him to see it, to _know_ it as if it were his own. He had worn it himself when the Imperials came, had seen it on the ones that had been burned alive, that had been shot down, that had been _murdered_ alongside the decimation their covert.

It was _fear._

Fear had wrenched his siblings’ faces. Fear had fueled their screams. Fear had been the final kick to his stomach after narrowly escaping, after betraying his Creed…

And now, fear was fresh like a spark on Din's face.

It was only for a second, yet Paz’s heart kicked him in guilt, his gut wrenching into tight knots. Din was grasping the wall with his shaking hand, holding himself up on even shakier legs, getting as far away from Paz as his broken body would allow, and Paz wasn’t sure what to do. Was he to rush forward? Demand attention? Wait?

The tension thrummed between them.

Just for a _few_ unbearable moments, neither man moved.

Then Din broke the silence as an aborted, strangled little sound squeezed out of his lungs. He grit his teeth to catch it, swallowed it back down. But then his knees buckled, his hand skid off the concrete behind him.

Paz rushed forward.

Din jerked back, using his downward momentum to throw himself against the wall and get one hand outstretched between them, the other flying down to his right thigh. His fingers twitched at the absence of the usual vibroblade sheath strapped there.

Paz winced in sympathy; even in the safety of the covert, muscle memory had left him narrowly stabbing friends who had surprised him or caught him when he was feverish. Compassion washed through his veins, letting him roll his shoulders back, relax. He closed the distance quickly but carefully, grabbing Din under the arms to slow his inevitable descent to the floor. Din’s fingernails bit into Paz’s bare arms, struggling against him.

The action had no teeth. It was _too_ weak, even for blood loss. Paz frowned. Something was wrong--

Din kicked out, carelessly swinging his weight and catching Paz’s lower shin in his drop. He nearly toppled them both if not for Paz twisting mid-fall and throwing himself back against the wall, swapping places, pinning Din to his chest with one arm bracketed around his middle, the other below his shoulders. Din pried at his fingers. “Hey! Djarin!” Paz growled. Din lashed out again, bare heel catching Paz’s toes. Paz cursed. “ _Gar shabuir! Udesii!_ ”

Perhaps it was the familiar tang of Mando’a, or maybe it was that Din had _finally_ come to his senses, had heard Paz’s voice and recognized him, but he stilled, then, breathing hard, heaving gasps. Paz relaxed. The rush of his heartbeat began to fade from his ears. He sighed.

Din went limp. The sudden snap of gravity had Paz straining to hold them both upright, using his pressure against the wall to slide down and take Din down with him until they were flat on the floor, legs sprawled out.

A moment passed. Paz was grateful for the breathing room.

Din's chin dropped to his chest. “Vizsla…” His voice would have been inaudible if he were any further away. “ _Su...cuy’gar._ ”

Relief dragged through Paz, slowly, as the adrenaline faded. It replaced the spikes in his nerves, smoothing down the tension. He said, “I _am_ alive, yes. And I see you are as well, Djarin.”

Earlier, Paz hadn’t realized just how blinded he had become. He hadn't been able to hear anything, hadn't been able to see anything; everything in him had been focused on Din. On making sure the bastard didn't kill himself on accident. Only now did he hear the insects trilling in the darkness, see his neighbors’ lights trailing in through his small shack’s windows. Din’s breathing was smoothing out, too, sounding less ragged, more natural, absent of the hind-brain reaction to fight-flight-freeze. From such an odd angle, Paz couldn’t see if his eyes were open. He wasn't even sure Din was conscious anymore...

Straining his neck and glancing down over Din's shoulder, Paz caught the sight of two sluggishly bleeding wounds. Neither looked to be too badly torn in their tussle, and thankfully, the bacta had already began scabbing the injuries over, it appeared. “Okay,” He tapped Din’s arm. “You awake? Let me up. Come on.”

He carefully leaned Din forward, getting out from behind him and guiding him back against the wall once more. Paz crouched before him, already searching for any new injuries that could have happened in their skirmish. His ribs would definitely need to be rechecked, but he had tried to mind his head and his wounds as best as he could.

Din’s head tipped back, his hair crawling up the concrete behind him as he slumped a bit lower, eventually blinking sluggishly over at Paz. “Dr…” His throat worked as he tried to speak, choking on spit. “Got drugged…”

That explained it.

Paz’s eyes dropped back to the wounds. Perhaps the weapon that had created the punctures was laced with something: a paralytic could have been the culprit, though Paz suspected a generic tranquilizer. Din was still able to breathe on his own, so it hadn't been dangerously strong, which was a relief in itself. There were dozens of brands on the black markets and in the underground worlds, he knew, having bought some himself from time-to-time to reel in an especially feisty bounty. Any one of those drugs could have been laced, could have been faulty, could have been _purposefully_ made to kill.

Nonetheless, it had been a wonder Din was even moving back at the lake, let alone trying to fend off five people. Hell, Paz was baffled as to how he was _standing_ just moments before.

When his gaze flicked back up, he found Din was staring, _again_ , practically boring a hole through Paz’s skull with such an intensity. “What…” Another harsh breath. “What happened…?”

“You’ll need to be more specific.” Paz mumbled.

Din's brow ticked up a fraction in a silent question.

Paz continued, “You drowned. So I brought you to my house.” At ‘house’, Din’s gaze rolled up around them, taking in the pathetic shack in what Paz assumed to be quiet judgement. “You ruined the last of my bacta.” He pointed to the square patches face-down on the floor.

“That’s unfortunate…” Din closed his eyes again. They stayed shut. “Wh-Where’s the...the…?” On the floor, his hand wiggled in a vague gesture. “The sword... Laser...” His ministrations stilled when he managed to conjur the word, “ _Darksaber_ …”

Paz stilled.

The darksaber?

Its very _name_ of it seemed to haunt him. The Siege had left no Mandalorian unscathed, had decimated everything in its path. He had never seen it with his own eyes, but he had heard stories off-world, once free from the fighting. The darksaber had fallen into clan Kryze’s hands, ripped from the Vizslas. Paz had never thought about chasing after his family's heritage; it had never interested him, even as a child, what with how Pre had become consumed by its power, how hundreds had been murdered for it. And after what _Maul_ had done to them all...

He closed his eyes.

If Din was _Mand’alor_ , that was none of his business. Paz had forsaken the Way, destroyed his Creed--

Cold froze his gut.

His gaze leapt up to Din, finding the man unmoving, breathing slowly. Peaceful, almost, if not for the blood, the bruises, the sweat, the pain, and the one _glaring_ issue:

How was someone _dar’Manda_ supposed to be _Mand’alor_?

It took Paz a moment to tear his focus from Din, shifting to sit on the floor as well as the shock crept over him. The guilt was back, this time _throttling_ him, shaking him from the inside out as it practically shouted, 'look what you've done, look at your mistake'.

In all of his history lessons, no one had been _dar’Manda_ and _Mand’alor_. Not successfully, at least. There had always been rumors of the _Mando’ade_ who would remove their helmets, who broke their Creed, but Paz had never seen it. It was impossible.

A strange haze of regret left him foggy and floating in his own body. It wasn't as if he _wanted_ Din to have drowned on the lakeside, but Paz had just ruined the one thing Din may have known. He wasn't sure where the bounty he had escape with was, didn't know who he was talking to, if anyone. If Paz had broken the _one_ consistent, stable thing in Din's life, he wasn't sure _what_ he'd do with himself.

Because a part of him craved that belonging.

_He_ had lost it the moment he pulled off his helmet.

“Paz…”

Paz’s head snapped up.

Din’s eyes were still closed, but his face was pinched in a way that could only be pain, or at _least_ discomfort. His head lolled against the wall and, once cocked sideways, he managed a blink, staring in Paz’s direction. “Forget it. Just get…” He paused, grinding his teeth. “Get me...off the floor…”

He would be lying if he said that Din’s asking for help hadn’t surprised him. However, he tried not to make a show of it as he nodded, scooted close, and got his hands under Din’s arms. He would spare him of being carried, positive that his pride had already been bruised enough: an absence of a warrior's death, needing aid from an old rival...

Paz hadn’t seen negativity in asking for help, though. Not really. It had always been normal to share the ailments of those around him, acting like a living, breathing unit when in the covert. They had never strayed far from one another's emotions, picking up on them and acting how they had best saw fit. But Din had always been different. How he had grown colder, aloof, more independent over the years, Paz wasn’t sure. He, too, _was_ family.

They got to the bed on Din’s wobbly legs with relative ease, all with the aid of Paz slinging Din’s arm across his shoulders, and holding firm to the waistband of his borrowed pants. Nevermind that Paz had taken almost all of his weight. Din half-rolled, half-dropped onto the mattress, landing on his good side albeit with a hiss of discomfort. Paz got him onto his back before he pulled away and picked up the ruined bacta patches. He tossed them in the garbage can, then made for the base of the bed, where the blanket had spilled over the edge. He settled it at Din’s feet.

Din was asleep. Or, more, he was completely _passed out_. There was no peaceful rest. He was completely deaf to Paz’s shuffling around as he tugged on his boots, shrugged on a cloak, and grabbed what little credits he had left. It was the smartest idea to replenish his medkit, regardless of whether Din was there or not. His job resulted in injuries, in cuts and scapes and bruises and ugly bashes against his skin that would leave him aching for days if not tended to properly. Glancing back one last time, Paz flicked off the lights and slid outside onto the street. He made sure to lock the door behind him.

Beside the bacta - of which, he would get _gel_ rather than those flimsy squares - Paz had thought about antibiotics, clotting agents, maybe some decent food, even. If he had the money, he would have gotten a bacta infusion kit and called it a night, but the consequences of a quick-fix for Din would kick Paz later in the week when he was busy starving to death. _Maker_ , if he had it his way, he’d dunk Din in a tank and leave him there. That would have been the safest bet: submerge the kid and seal it tight.

The market was sparse of both patrons and stalls, leaving him to dance between different vendors for what he needed. The first man only had the goddamn bacta _patches_ , and another wanted triple the going rate for a small tube of off-brand gel that had expired two days ago. After some snooping and finagling, Paz had been, what he would call, _successful_ in his purchasing: a tube of bacta the length of his arm for only a couple credits more - though at half the strength; Din would have to sit still and _heal_ \- a half-dozen rolls of bandages, a relatively cheap bottle of antimicrobials, a stimulant shot for himself in the field, an antiparalytic that would _hopefully_ speed up the detoxification process, and a bag of dried soup mix. While Paz himself hadn’t been too fond of wild rice and Cogala meat advertised on the front of the pouch, it had been the cheapest, and he figured Din wouldn’t much care being he was only half-conscious anyways.

Trekking back put strain on Paz’s muscles, reminding him of his age in an almost cruel way. He felt the twinges in his back when he stepped too wide, felt the ache in his shoulders and elbows and wrists when he shifted the bags of his goods. Carrying Din had been a goddamn mistake; he should have just lugged him back like a sack of potatoes. Sure, he hadn’t been too terribly heavy, but Paz wasn’t getting any younger since the covert was split apart, and he knew he hadn’t been training as well. If he were thrown into the heat of battle, he wasn’t sure how well he would fare.

But Din? Din would be fine. Paz had faith. With rest, and recuperation aided by medicine and good food, he would be standing strong in no time. The kid was tough, if nothing else, both mentally and physically, walking away from some of the most brutal of beatdowns Paz had ever seen.

He would be fine.

He _had_ to be fine, otherwise Paz would be alone.

Again.

Rounding up the path to his house, Paz keyed in and stepped over the threshold as quickly as he could. The last thing he needed was someone finding Din in his current state. The door hissed shut and Paz set his supplies on the kitchenette’s countertop. He flicked on the lights and turned--

Din was gone.

His composure slipped.

Paz strained to hear.

There was no running water from the bathroom. No noise from anywhere in the house.

Din was _gone._

“ _Shit._ ”

He had only been out for twenty minutes. _At most._

“Shit, shit, _shit!_ ”

In his turnaround, Paz noticed Din’s armor was missing. He cursed again as he tumbled back out onto the street. Cursed once more when he realized he had _no idea_ where Din could have gone, or how _far_ he could have gotten given his condition. The bastard knew how to rig a speeder and could steal a ship in his sleep, even without the command codes or keys, doing plenty of petty thieving in his freetime like the fucking lunatic he was. And he knew how to blend into the shadows, knew how to become a nobody. Din was strong, and fast, and a complete ghost when he wanted to be. Paz would never be able to catch up to him, he would _never_ find him again and the prospect of losing _another_ goddamn _vod_ had him reeling in utter silence, completely speechless as he twisted in place, the world blurring as he searched for _anything_ , anything at _all_ to help him find Din _,_ all while he battled the urge to just _scream_ and--

Something dragged behind him.

Paz whipped around.

It was rather pitiful, really. If he hadn’t been scared _shitless_ , Paz would have likely been worried. Instead, as he stared down at Din, half-curled in the alleyway between his and the neighbor’s houses, he felt nothing but a spike of rage.

His face grew hot. Nerves alight and heart in his throat, his ears, drowning out the sounds and swallowing his words, Paz ran forward, hauling Din up by his chest plate. By the groan Din let slip, it jostled his wounds.

_Good_ , Paz wanted to say. He deserved it, the ungrateful bastard.

“You son of a _bitch!_ ” Din was still too-loose on his feet, devoured by the drug, his boots scraping tracks into the dirt as he half-dangled, half-stood in Paz's hold. “What the _fuck_ are you doing?”

Din muttered something, hardly an excuse for anything, Paz was willing to bet.

“Answer me!” Paz shook him, growling out, “ _What_ are you--!”

A porch light to his left flicked on.

Paz choked.

Before his neighbor could step out, he flung them inside, getting the door shut as quickly as he could. They didn’t need to make a scene, he needed to remind himself of that. Staying calm was key. Staying calm was the _goddamn_ key if Din had people out for his head.

But, in the privacy of Paz’s home, he couldn’t help but want to _unleash_ onto Din; years of pent-up frustration boiled in his gut, decade-old unresolved childhood arguments split his seams, questions of needing to know why the _fuck_ he left, why he brought fire down upon the covert, why whatever he had stolen from the Guild was so _goddamn_ important so as to sacrifice them _all--_

Paz reeled around to face Din and just barely caught him as he tipped backwards.

The momentum had him slumping against Paz, all limbs, no grace, not even bothering to hold himself up. Paz wasn’t even sure he was _conscious_ . Yet _again._ “Din?” he tried. At the silence, he got as good of a grip on him as he could, his muscles _shrieking_ in protest, and began hauling him back to the bed. “ _Din?_ Come on, _vod_ , come on…”

He wasn’t sure _what_ was wrong. It could have been the drugs acting up, but what if it wasn’t? What if Din had made his wounds worse? What if he _was_ concussed and had accidentally given himself irreparable brain damage?

What if _Paz_ had done something...?

Thoughts left him to shakily peel off Din’s armor once more, tossing it aside carelessly until Din was stripped back down to those borrowed pants and, the _shabuir_ , one of Paz’s shirts as well. The light cloth clung to Din’s stomach, deep red already, as Paz hiked up the hem and held his breath for the worst.

A bloody, gummy mess of ripped scabs and fresh blood met him and Paz scowled. His eyes flicked up to Din’s slack face. “Moron…” he mumbled. "Absolute fucking _moron_."

Though, with how he had lost his temper just moments ago, _shaking_ an injured man, Paz hadn't thought himself of any higher standard.

He grabbed the scissors and cut through his _own_ damn shirt, the fabric bloodied and not worth the trouble of saving. He squeezed out a generous amount of bacta gel onto a square of bandage, then more onto his fingers. His lip curled as he brought it to the wound, working it over the ragged edges and dipping some into the surface of the site. It didn’t matter if his hands were dirty; the bacta would kill anything he had on him.

Din made a noise, something quiet, but he didn’t stir beyond that.

For that, Paz was grateful.

The square of bacta gel was slapped on next, and Paz was careful in winding the rest of one roll around Din’s waist, ending up propping him against his chest for the umpteenth time and working around Din's arms. The shoulder wound wasn’t as serious but was a pain in Paz’s _ass_ to wrap up, taking another roll of gauze to hold the bacta square in place. After the scrape on Din’s arm was treated with the same care, Paz settled for smoothing some gel into his side, where the bruises were the deepest in color and the broken rib likely sat.

Din’s eyes peeled open as Paz was pulling back to inspect his handiwork, blood and bacta leaving his hands disgustingly sticky. “ _Hey,_ ” he spat. Din blinked slowly at him. “You move again and I’ll kill you.” At Din’s silence, Paz turned to the bathroom and made for the sink. Loud enough for Din to hear, he spat, “It would be easy! I'd become _Mand’alor_ in no time, _shabuir!_ ”

When he came back into the main room, Paz had braced himself for yet another escape attempt, but Din was right where he left him, flat on his back, breathing a little tighter but looking relatively blissful due to the bacta, likely. Paz knelt next to the bed and pulled out the antimicrobials and antiparalytics. He shook out a few pills and grabbed Din’s wrist. “Here.” Paz dropped them in Din’s open palm. "Can you sit up?"

The answer was a no before Din could even speak. The kid could barely curl his fingers around the pills.

“ _Kriff_ ,” Paz got to his feet, poured a glass of water, and got back to the bedside. “Can you even move?”

Din sighed, “A bit...”

Paz got an arm behind Din’s shoulders and hauled him upright, eliciting a pull of pain from his carefully-guarded expression. Din stayed silent, though, as he strained to lift his arm.

It was in his eyes, practically glowing: Din was _pissed_ , though whether he was frustrated at the situation or at himself, Paz couldn’t tell. He wouldn't even be surprised if the guy was mad at _him_ , too. He didn’t much care _to_ tell, though, because he was getting his hand under Din’s and guiding it up within a beat. Din tipped the medication into his mouth and, with Paz’s help, drank enough water to get them down.

As Paz got him settled flat, Din began, “What happened...to your Creed?”

Paz quickly stepped away from the bed.

Din’s eyes were on him as he meandered to the kitchenette and filled a pot of water. The soup needed time to cook, and while he doubted Din would be eating anytime soon, Paz was _starving._ His stomach growled at the smell of the powder mix as he tore the bag open with his other hand.

He set the pot of water on the burner and brought it to a low boil, the water rolling and bubbling and hot soon enough. Focusing on making the soup was easy: warm the water, put in the dried mixture in intermittently, and stir until the broth thickened, the meat warmed, and the rice was soft. Paz busied himself, pouring, then stirring, then pouring some more, stirring some more, pour, stir, pour, stir--

_Maker_ , he did _not_ want to have this conversation. Not right now. Not with Din of all people.

The guy was drugged up on medication that had been jam-packed with antihistamines, too. He was bound to pass out at any moment, and this, to Paz, was a serious conversation, something that needed care and consideration. Words needed to be chosen carefully and proper time to think was desired. Paz hadn't thought of how he would explain his reasoning for throwing away his own Creed, _let alone_ why he had done that to Din's, too. Without his consent, without him even _knowing._

Yet, Paz couldn't help himself as he said, with his back to Din, "I broke it." It was simple enough, but the words still winded him. The counter supported his weight as he leaned against it. "A month-or-so ago. I broke it. To...survive out here. People would know a Mandalorian, or a Vizsla, but they wouldn't know Paz."

How selfish of him.

Survival. 

As if _that_ were a reasonable explanation. The Way was _more_ than any of them. To say that he was worth more than his Creed was _wrong_ , it tasted foul, leaving something sour to rot in his mouth. Paz swallowed around it, reminding himself to breathe. But breathing didn't matter when he should have been a dead man. Breathing _wouldn't_ matter when he _did_ die, Creedless, without purpose, wasting away in some desolate shack...

At Din's silence, Paz turned.

He found Din's open, soft eyes.

The eyes of a killer, of a man who was compassionate and gentle and _dangerous_. He should have been mad, should have been asking questions, yet there wasn't a _hint_ of judgement in those eyes, only patience. He was listening, observing: it was something _beroya_ did best, after all.

But Paz wasn't a bounty.

He didn't deserve Din's patience or sympathy. It was cowardly to want that from him when _he_ had taken something so precious.

Paz stepped away from the stove, sucking in a breath. "Look, your Creed…"

"I already broke it." Din said.

Paz stiffened from toes to teeth.

There wasn't a chance in the galaxy.

Din _must_ have had a concussion, then. Had he not checked well enough before?

As if sensing it, Din took hold of the tension in the room and sliced through it cleanly, saying, “The child...had been kidnapped. It was the...the only way to save him." He swallowed thickly, relaxing into the mattress. His eyes shut. "I don't regret it."

A vague "oh" was all Paz could manage.

He tilted backwards until he was leaning on the counter for support, not bothering to mask his befuddling. 

Behind him, the soup bubbled loudly. Someone outside was talking. It was all warbling noise to Paz. Another pop from the soup. Another voice from outside.

Din's eyes flung open.

Paz startled. "Din, what--?"

" _Quiet_." Din snapped.

Paz shut his mouth.

Something slammed on the front door.

Paz jolted, ripping the spoon from the soup and holding it up instinctively. _Damn_ muscle memory.

“It’s them.” Din whispered. Paz turned. Din's hand stretched for his piled-up armor, fingers skirting over an angular hilt, black and lithe and sharp in design.

_The darksaber._

Paz inched closer.

Din really _was Mand'alor_...

A sudden, rhythmic beeping from outside silenced Paz's fluttering heart.

He barely managed to shield his face before the door blew in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a slow-ass writer, there are no excuses. I mean I could say that I got _drunk as fuck_ last night but, well, that doesn't necessarily account for the other, like, what?
> 
> _Two weeks?_
> 
> This is normal for me. People who've known my other works know this. RIP them, y'all are troopers. So, now _the rest of you_ understand their woe. Yay!
> 
> Regardless! I hope you enjoyed the chapter! There will be one (1) more after this, and then it's a completed work! But be sure to check out the rest of this series if you're liking what you're seeing (when I eventually write it)! It'll likely be all Din whumpy/angst/hurty-comforty things, but I may add some other characters. Not sure yet. It's a big card - twenty-five whole-ass spaces - so there's lots of wiggle room.
> 
> Oh, PSA: It's either spelled "Viszla" or "Vizsla", doesn't matter how many times I Google and double check. I _will_ forever swap between the two. This is the Way of the dyslexic bitch.
> 
> PSA to the PSA: Editing _who_? I tried my best, but it's late o'clock and I barely slept, so apologies if thinks make no sense.
> 
> Have a lovely day or night, wherever and whenever you're reading this.


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